


Alone in a Crowd

by silentdescant



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks, Peter Hale & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Post-Nogitsune Stiles Stilinski, Self-Hatred, Social Anxiety, Stilinski Family Feels, Survivor Guilt, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-21
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2019-04-05 17:12:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14048964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentdescant/pseuds/silentdescant
Summary: It doesn't feel like he's used to; there's no sudden, heart-stopping moment that hits him like a train, makes him breathless and dizzy. It's not the same at all.





	Alone in a Crowd

**Author's Note:**

> There's a lot of vomiting and descriptions of nausea (and other anxiety symptoms) so if you have emetophobia, you'll probably want to give this a skip.

It doesn't feel like he's used to; there's no sudden, heart-stopping moment that hits him like a train, makes him breathless and dizzy. It's not the same at all.

***

Scott asks him during their free period if he wants to join them for a movie that evening. Stiles asks who he means by "them" and pushes aside the weird, slithery feeling in his gut while he waits for Scott's answer.

"Me and Kira," Scott replies.

Stiles snorts and says, "That sounds like a date, dude."

"No, I mean, it's us for sure, but I'm gonna ask the others too. I thought maybe we could all hang out."

"The others?" Stiles asks.

"You know, Lydia and Malia and everyone."

"Everyone," Stiles echoes softly. He shrugs. "Yeah, sure."

After school, Stiles scarfs down a dinner of microwaved pizza rolls and scrambles to finish his AP homework before he has to leave for the movie. He's feeling extra jittery today and he's not sure why, and because of that, there's not much he can do about it. He taps his pencil on his arm and tries to focus. He actually gets a lot of his work done, too, by the time his phone alarm reminds him that it's time to meet Scott and Kira and "everyone" at the movie theater.

He gets up from his desk and grabs his keys, and there's a swooping feeling in his stomach like every muscle in his abdomen clenched and released at the same time and it leaves him weak and nauseated, and he bararely manages to stumble into the bathroom before he's leaning over the toilet and retching. His forehead is slick with sweat and his legs feel like jelly and after the first wave of sickness he slides to the floor. He reaches for the toilet paper with shaking hands to wipe off his face. He's suddenly too weak to flush the toilet; his fingers slip on the metal handle.

He doesn't even hear his dad come home.

"Stiles, what happened?" comes the urgent, panicked voice from the doorway. Stiles hadn't even closed the bathroom door, so his father finds him sprawled on his knees, hugging the toilet bowl.

"I'm fine," Stiles replies with a few labored breaths. "Really, I'm fine. It was just something I ate, I think."

His dad looks like he wants to come in but he waits in the hallway, clutching the doorjamb. "You want me to help you up?"

"I think I'll just stay here," Stiles says.

"You feel sick still?"

Stiles thinks for a moment. He's not in imminent danger of vomiting again. His stomach seems... stable. The sweat on his forehead feels clammy now too, no longer prickling and dripping from his hairline. "No, I'm okay," he says. Hepushes himself to his feet and leans heavily against the wall.

His dad catches him by the arm. Embarassingly, it's the only thing keeping him upright as he brushes his teeth and splashes water on his face from the sink. His dad helps him to bed and Stiles falls back against the pillows. He's keeping very still in case something sets him off again. He feels... fragile, like his body could revolt with one wrong move.

"Do you want something to eat?" his dad asks. "Soup or crackers or anything? Or will that make you sick again? Maybe just some water?"

The nausea has passed and now his stomach's empty and, surprisingly, he's hungry again. He says yes to the soup and crackers. He texts Scott, **can't make it, sry. feel sick. dad's making me soup.**

 **what's wrong?** Scott asks.

**idk probly something i ate. i'm fine no worries. see u tmrw.**

He feels settled now, only a little bit fragile, the after-effects of puking. He eats the chicken soup and crackers at the table with his dad and they watch TV together for a couple of hours. It's nice to stay in, for once. No supernatural danger monopolizing their evening, hijacking their normal life. It almost doesn't feel normal anymore, and Stiles finds that he's missed it.

***

Stiles doesn't notice his own restless, fluttering hands until that clench-release of nausea overtakes him, the next time it happens. Thinking back on it, though, as he breathes deeply and leans over the sink in Scott's bathroom, he's been more hyperactive than usual for hours, since before they left school.

The girls are coming over soon, and Scott already ordered a couple of pizzas. Stiles hasn't eaten anything since lunch. It doesn't matter. His stomach rolls.

He drops to his knees and lifts the toilet seat. He's ready for it this time. As much as you can be ready for a wave of sudden sickness. It doesn't last long, and he's able to clean himself up with shaking hands a few minutes later. He cups some water in his palm to swish out his mouth and stares at his reflection.

Sweaty, pale, a little sunken. But normal. No bloodshot eyes, no black veins crawling up his neck. No deep shadows beneath his eyes. No inexplicable scratch marks or bites. No blood or black goo leaking from any orifices. He's just... sick.

Lydia's in the living room when Stiles goes downstairs, clutching the banister like a lifeline. She narrows her eyes at him.

"You okay, Stiles?"

"I think I'm coming down with something," he mutters. He doesn't want to look at her. "I'm gonna head home."

Scott hears and comes out of the kitchen as Stiles reaches the front door. "Sick?" he asks.

"Well, it wasn't something I ate this time," Stiles replies. He flashes them a sideways smile, or at least as much of one as he can manage. "I'm fine. Feel better already. Just not up to it tonight."

Scott strokes his arm a few times. It's comforting, but Stiles wants Scott to stop touching him. It makes him feel both better and worse. A slithery eel of _bad_ in his belly squirms. He doesn't know what it means. He just wants to be alone.

The drive home is fine. He feels more stable by the moment, less likely to urgently veer onto the shoulder and vomit into a ditch. By the time he pulls into his driveway, his appetite has returned and he's a little sad to have missed out on the pizza Scott ordered just for him, with white sauce and extra veggies.

His dad is surprised to see him home so soon.

"I felt sick again," Stiles explains. Honesty, he feels, is the best policy in this case. He doesn't know what's wrong with him, and the last time he started getting symptoms and waited too long to tell anyone, a bunch of people ended up dead.

"Are you okay?" His dad is tense on the couch, but he doesn't get up. He's waiting for Stiles to explain. He trusts Stiles to be honest about how he feels, what he needs. Stiles has no idea why. He's lied to his dad almost daily since he was ten.

He takes a breath. "I feel better now. But I got nauseous, like the other day."

"You want something to settle your stomach?" his dad asks kindly. "I could run to the store, get some ginger ale. More crackers?"

"I'm okay, I think." He's hungry now, but he knows the pizza would've been a bad idea. He sits down next to his dad and sinks back against the cushions. "I'll make some dinner later."

"Keep it simple," his dad replies. "Maybe some rice. I think we have crackers left." He puts the back of his hand on Stiles's forehead but doesn't say anything. Stiles doesn't feel feverish. After a few seconds, his dad tousles his hair and rests his arm gently over Stiles's shoulders. "Do you want me to make you something?"

"No, it's okay." Stiles drifts sideways until he's curled under his dad's arm, head against his chest. His dad stroking his back feels different than when Scott had stroked his arm earlier. He sighs and watches TV and eventually notices the tension melting from his body.

***

Stiles has a theory, but he's not sure if it's valid. He supposes the only way to know is to test it, but he's at the mercy of his body, these strange waves of illness, there and gone within hours. Every time he notices his hands tapping or his knee bouncing, he stops and takes very careful inventory of his bodily functions.

He's breathing normally. His heart rate is... mostly normal. He's not sweaty or clammy or anything. He's not having a panic attack. The moment passes. Never develops into the vomiting and shaking hands.

Well, not until he's at Derek's loft for a meeting with the wolves about an omega that's rumored to be in town. Stiles shuts himself in the bathroom the moment he's aware of the way his body's shaking. He breathes deeply and stares at the mirror.

"What the fuck is going on?" he asks himself quietly. The swooping, sick feeling spreads low in his belly and down his legs. He sinks to the floor carefully so he doesn't fall over when his legs refuse to hold him up any longer.

He doesn't puke this time, but it's a near thing. After several minutes, he rejoins the group in the main room, but he's still on edge. He's still fragile and sick and it's like there's something caught in his throat; every time he speaks, he coughs a little to clear it, but each time he just feels closer and closer to vomiting all over the floor.

The pack doesn't seem to notice, thankfully, and Stiles tamps down the queasy roiling in his stomach until it's time for them to disperse.

Peter comes into the loft as everyone's leaving, and he gives Stiles a curious glance as they pass each other.

It's just Peter and Derek in the loft now, with Stiles lingering at the door, but he abruptly feels better, and that's... strange.

"Need something?" Derek asks.

The now-familiar swoop of nasuea creeps up on him and Stiles shakes his head. He catches Peter's eyes again, and Peter's watching him. Calculating.

He's always calculating. It doesn't mean anything.

"No," Stiles replies. "I'll see you later."

By the time he gets home, everything's fine. He makes dinner for himself and packs up a Tupperware container for his dad, who's working late. He leaves it in the fridge and heads upstairs for an early night.

His theory was... not disproven, but not proven either. Lydia wasn't present today at Derek's loft, but the rest of the group was. So she's not the one making him feel this way. He thinks it might be one of the pack. Something they're not even aware of. Some kind of supernatural virus or something, he's not sure. Lydia was the most obvious suspect, because her powers are so... _unknown_ to him, to all of them. But it's not her.

Scott touched him, though, and he felt ill, and his dad touched him and he felt fine. Maybe it's one of the wolves. Maybe it's Scott. But it can't be, because he sees Scott every day. They share a free period and one other class, plus lacross practice some afternoons.

He sighs. Maybe it's just a normal, human illness. If it gets worse, maybe he'll ask Melissa.

***

The group gathers at Scott's house a few days later, clustered around the kitchen table to look at a map of the town. Derek marks a few spots in the forest where he caught the omega's scent, but he says there's no signs of a werewolf camping out there.

Stiles feels like he's about to twitch out of his skin. Malia keeps shooting him dirty looks because he's incessantly tapping his fingers on the table. He grabs the Sharpie from Derek just for something to do with his hands, but it doesn't help. He just taps the Sharpie on the table instead.

Peter, who's standing next to him, covers Stiles's hand with one of his own, stilling him and wresting the Sharpie from his grasp. He doesn't even express his annoyance, he just puts a stop to the behavior he's annoyed by. The twisting, slithering nausea remains, but it's frozen somehow. Stopped in its tracks, not getting worse. Stiles doesn't feel like he's about to collapse right here at the table.

Stiles looks at Peter, who's not paying him any attention now that he's not being annoying.

Lydia, standing to his other side, rests her hand on his arm. "Stiles?"

If someone asked him a question, he didn't hear it. But no one else is waiting for his response, so maybe she's just observant. Maybe she knows he's about to fall apart. Her hand on his arm makes him cringe. He recognizes that he should be comforted by it, that it's _meant_ to be comforting, but he squirms out of her grasp and leans into Peter's side.

Then he realizes what he's doing and backs away from the table with a frustrated sigh. He doesn't feel like he's going to puke, but he locks himself in the bathroom anyway and sits on the closed toilet lid with his head down between his legs.

The meeting was almost over. He hears some of the others filter out. Lydia and Malia leave together. Stiles listens to Kira's soft footsteps following Scott's heavier ones heading upstairs to his bedroom. Derek shares a few words with Peter that Stiles can't make out through the door, but the low rumble of his voice makes Stiles's heart rate jump. He just wants to know what they're saying. If they're talking about him.

He goes back to the kitchen. Derek's gathering up the map and the markers, and Peter's already walking to the door.

"Wait--" he calls. He grabs for Peter's arm as a reflex. Peter's gaze flicks down to Stiles's hand, then up to his face. He seems almost amused. But that's a perpetual state for him too, that and calculating. It doesn't mean anything.

Derek gives them a concerned look.

"I'll meet you at the loft," Peter tells him, and Derek takes the hint and leaves.

"What did you do to me?" Stiles asks with a confidence he doesn't feel.

"To you?"

"You did something. I feel sick all the time but when I'm with you, I don't."

"Sick?"

"Stop avoiding--"

Peter leans close and takes a very obvious whiff of Stiles's scent. He's doing it for show; werewolf senses are sharper than that. "You don't smell like illness," he says.

"What did you do to me?" Stiles asks again, quieter. He licks his lips. His heart is jumping, but it doesn't feel like the sickness. It's just regular old nervous energy, anxiety at having a confrontation with a sociopathic supernatural creature.

"Do you feel sick now?" Peter asks. There's no emotion in his voice; he gives away nothing. He's gathering facts.

"No," Stiles says. "But I did earlier. Until you touched my hand, and then I felt okay for a minute. I felt like I wasn't going to shake apart."

"Hmm."

"What did you do?"

"I didn't do anything, Stiles. I don't know what you're feeling or why, and quite frankly, I have more important things to concern myself with at the moment."

"But--"

"I have to go, Stiles."

Stiles doesn't want to let go of Peter's arm. He's honestly surprised to realize he hasn't let go already. But Peter pries himself away and leaves Stiles standing in the hallway, just as confused and uncertain as ever.

***

Stiles spends several quiet nights in with his father. He feels fine. Scott wants to hang out on Saturday, play some video games, relieve some of the stress of this hunt to find the omega, and Stiles is sick of studying for exams, so he throws a couple of things into his backpack under the pretense of getting research done with Scott and goes down to his Jeep.

As soon as he turns the ignition, his stomach clenches and he hunches over the steering wheel, panting for breath. He's going to puke, he's going to puke and he can't even move, he can't even lean over, he can't breathe without wanting to cry, his abdomen is twisted into so many painful knots and his legs feel like jello and this--this--this is a panic attack, he's panicking, and it's not like normal, it's not what he's used to, but he recognizes it now, he recognizes the anxiety, he recognizes the obsessive, cyclical thoughts, he's going to be fine, he's going to breathe, he's going to be okay, it's going to pass, he just has to wait for it to pass, he just has to breathe, he just has to wait.

He can't go to Scott's house. He can't be around Scott, who makes him sick. Who makes him anxious. Stiles doesn't know why. He doesn't understand the triggers, not yet. But going to Scott's house would make it worse. His whole body does the clench-release, clench-release thing that leaves him feeling weak and fragile and like he's going to fall into pieces. He can't go to Scott's house, not right now.

Twenty minutes later, he's standing outside Peter's apartment and he's not sure why. Peter made him feel better the other day, during the meeting, but Peter is also a _source_ of anxiety, and Stiles just has to know. He has to understand his body, his reactions. He has to figure them out so he can _fix_ them.

Peter's surprised to see him. He takes a long, slow look at Stiles, no doubt listening to his rapid heartbeat, no doubt scenting the anxiety radiating off him, no doubt cataloguing every detail in case he needs to use Stiles in the future.

"Come in," he says simply.

"I don't know what's happening," Stiles tells him. He paces in the cozy living room. The apartment is a lot smaller than he expected from Peter, who crosses his arms and watches him, blank-faced. "But I've been having panic attacks, I think. I think. I--I don't know. It's not like... It's not like I'm used to."

"You've had panic attacks before," Peter says. Not a question, but a realization. Not a secret, either, but Stiles is surprised Peter hadn't known.

"Yeah, like. Danger. Death. Threats. Things that, y'know. Would make someone panic. Triggers. It doesn't always happen, I don't know to expect it or anything, but it... I understand why they happen. After the fact. I know what set me off."

"And this is different," Peter prompts.

"I feel sick. Not all the time, but sometimes. A lot of the time. I don't even notice it until it's just too much and I'm puking my guts out and shaking and I don't know why. I don't... I don't know _why_." Stiles runs his hands through his hair. He doesn't feel fragile anymore. He's frustrated.

"What are the common factors?"

Stiles rolls his eyes. "I'm not an idiot. There are none. It's not Lydia, like I thought at first. She wasn't there some of the time. It's not Scott--but it is Scott, in a way. He made it worse sometimes. But I see him every day at school, and it's fine. Nothing else has been the same. It's been pack meetings, it's been... fucking... pizza parties, I don't know. Nothing has been... consistent. I don't know _why_ I'm feeling this way and I don't know why I'm _not_ put off by you. You said you didn't do anything."

"I didn't."

Stiles lets out a gust of air that's almost a sigh and almost a groan and he throws himself down on the couch. Peter takes the armchair to his left. He studies Stiles for a moment and purses his lips. He looks like a therapist.

 _Fucked up person to come to for therapy_ , Stiles muses.

"How do you feel about your friends?" Peter asks.

"You're not my therapist."

"Do you have one?"

"No," Stiles bites out. There's no one he can talk to about monsters and possession and magic. He's not getting sent back to Eichen.

"Need I remind you, Stiles, _you_ showed up on my doorstep wanting to talk."

Stiles sighs and sinks deeper into the couch. "I don't know. They're my friends. What do you want from me?"

"Why was your first instinct to think Lydia was causing you these problems?"

"Because she's a banshee," Stiles replies. "I don't even understand all of what she does. And she probably hates me now because I killed her best friend, so if anyone's going to get revenge, it'd be her. But she wasn't there a couple of times. She wasn't going to be there today and it was so bad I couldn't even move."

"What about Scott, you mentioned thinking it was him."

"He's my best friend," Stiles says in a rush. "He's... He's, I don't know, _good_. Just, all the time, he's _good_ , and when he touches me I feel like he knows that I'm not and it makes me feel like I'm dirty and slimy and... I killed his fucking girlfriend. I'm not _good_. He probably hates me now too. I don't know why he even bothers inviting me out."

Peter nods. Stiles rolls his eyes again. Peter's _not a therapist_ , but it does feel better to talk, to at least bounce around ideas. Theories. Possibilities. Stiles just needs to figure this out, and so far, this is actually helping.

"Today, what happened?"

"Scott asked me to come over and play video games and chill for a while. We've been stressed over the omega, and exams coming up, and... just, everything. So I got in my car, and then I couldn't even breathe, I just felt like I was turning inside out, and I couldn't even... I couldn't stomach the thought of driving over to his place. Even considering it made me feel worse. But I drove here just fine. I got here fine. What's different about you?"

"A lot of things are different about me," Peter murmurs. "But it sounds like you're afraid all of your friends secretly hate you."

"It's not a secret," Stiles snaps. "I know they do. I just don't know why they act like they don't."

Peter smiles, but it's not his usual shrewd smile. It's mildly compassionate, actually. "As loath as I am to admit it, I'm positive your friends do not secretly hate you. They don't hate you at all. They don't blame you for what happened."

"How do you know that?" Stiles asks grudgingly.

"They're concerned about you. They always are."

"Because I'm the weak fucking human who gets himself possessed and beaten up and--"

"Because you've been through a lot," Peter interrupts smoothly. "You've been through things that would break a lesser man's mind clean in half. I think everyone's surprised how well you've recovered. But you haven't really recovered, have you?"

"I'm fine."

"Clearly."

Stiles doesn't want to give Peter any ground. He doesn't respond. Instead, he asks again, "What's different about you, then?"

"I don't care who you've killed," Peter replies simply. "You think they blame you for Allison. You think they blame you for death and destruction in general. But you know that I don't care."

It makes a certain amount of sense, though Stiles isn't about to say so aloud. Okay. He understands the Peter thing now. But he doesn't doesn't have a solid grasp on these panic triggers, and he doesn't know--

"Guilt," Peter tells him in a low voice. "It's eating you inside. Every time you think Allison should be there, be part of the group. Every time you expect the others to think about her, the guilt takes over. I don't blame you for Allison, and I don't have time for things like guilt."

"Great, so I just needed a sociopathic BFF to be understanding," Stiles mutters.

Peter leans forward. He doesn't protest the title. Stiles wonders if he considers it a compliment in any way, shape, or form. It wasn't meant that way.

Except it was, sort of, because that's exactly what Stiles needed. Someone to listen and understand, someone who wouldn't judge and doesn't hold him responsible for the havoc he's wreaked.

"Put it out of your mind, Stiles," Peter tells him softly. "Your friends do not hate you, nor do they blame you for what your body did while it wasn't under your control. They've grieved for Allison. They're likely still grieving. But they want you around."

Stiles nods. He keeps nodding. His hands are restless. He chafes his arms and sits up, leans forward to mirror Peter's pose. It puts their knees close together. Stiles looks at Peter's interlaced fingers, the lax, casual curl of them. He tries to do the same, but his fingers twist. His nails scratch his knuckles. He squeezes his thumb, pinches it.

Peter lays his hand over both of Stiles's hands and stills them.

"What do I do?" Stiles asks miserably.

"I know you don't believe it yet," Peter says. "I can smell your anxiety like it's the only thing in this room. But I don't have any reason to lie about this."

"You could have a reason and I don't know it yet."

"But I don't. Stiles, I don't care. If you believe nothing else, believe in my complete disinterest in interpersonal relationship issues."

Stiles considers this and nods again.

"It'll take time to let go of the guilt," Peter says. "Derek still hasn't let go of his, and it's been years. I don't have any advice for you. I don't feel the same way."

But now that Stiles knows what's wrong, now that he understands his triggers--his _guilt_ \--he can work on fixing it. He can work on believing Peter's words. He takes a deep breath. With a silent apology to Allison's memory, Stiles exhales and tries to let go of the guilt. Just a little bit. Just enough for now. Just enough to start.

He'll get better.

 

 _fin_.


End file.
